


Ostinato

by orphan_account



Series: Mystery Spot [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Prompt Fic, Suicide, Superlock (Sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fic: Sherlock with a bit of a Supernatural crossover element, which in this case… The Mystery Spot episode.</p><p>This is Sherlock's side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ostinato

**Author's Note:**

> The first of two prompts set by Inspectahradio on tumblr.

It had meant to be a simple experiment, to test the drug that was obviously in the sugar. The drug that was causing Henry Knight to lose his mind, that had fabricated this ludicrous tale of a hound that haunted the moor. The laboratory conditions were carefully monitored; contained, sterile and as safe as possibly could be. He supposed it was cruel, to test his theory on John. Kind, faithful, unwavering John who always trusted and never doubted him but Sherlock was in need of a lesser mind and who better than his best friend?

 

Hearing John’s voice on the other line, Sherlock had been calm and almost smug. The sugar had induced the result he wanted, mind numbing fear, a soul wracked with paranoia and disturbed to the core. He was certain about this and oh, how he wanted to revel in the joy of unravelling another mystery. Though that would have to be put on hold for now, he told himself. He hadn’t enough data and it was always foolish to theorise before collecting the evidence to support it. No, no unveilings of his brilliance until he was absolutely sure.

 

His steps towards the lab were swift but not hurried in the slightest. He would take his time, allow the sugar to warp John’s mind a little longer and to purify his results. Sherlock’s hand touched the handle and a sense of uneasiness took him; a cold, sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach. Something was wrong.

 

The door was pushed open.

 

The sound of a gunshot shattered the peace.

 

This time, Sherlock’s pace was frantic. His chest clenched and squeezed the air from his lungs. Soon, he was running and throwing off the cover of the cage.

 

The smell of blood hit him before the sight did.

 

Self inflicted, one single entry wound, death in an instant, muzzle of gun placed into mouth, bullet pierced the roof, ripped through the temporal lobe and lodged itself into the motor cortex. Blood leaked from his mouth, flowing still, never stopping. It drenched dishwater locks, infected them with crimson, vile crimson that should’ve been in John’s body. It was an arbitrary thought, but in that single heart stopping moment, Sherlock could not help but think that John looked rather peaceful.

 

Everything turned black.

 

~*~

 

When he opened his eyes, it was with a start, as if he had been holding his breath for hours on end. Inhale, exhale, repeat. His lungs burned. Calm down, sit up, observe surroundings, breathing still difficult. Where was he? Mattress soft, springs old and worn from frequent use, duvet, cheap and threadbare. The smells were alien, not the chemical biohazard of 221B, was missing the musk, the distinct scent of smoke absent from the air. The wallpaper was the wrong shade, the wrong pattern, his furniture all wrong. Conclusion, he was not in 221B. Expanding further, he was in that ludicrous vegetarian bed and breakfast in Dartmoor.

 

Dartmoor.

 

His heart sank to his stomach, face pale and in an instant, images of John bleeding on the floor flashed before him. A dream? It couldn’t be. His dreams were never so vivid, so real. But how else could he explain this inexplicable feeling of dread? A premonition, perhaps? Ridiculous.

 

“Sherlock...?”

 

Sherlock’s head snapped up, his gaze fraught as he peered at the man standing at the bathroom door. There John stood, breathing, warm, alive. His brow was furrowed and that all too familiar crease could be seen between his eyes.

 

“You okay?” John asked when Sherlock failed to respond.

 

Hadn’t John stood there yesterday? He’d asked a different question, Sherlock couldn’t remember what. Something inane, he’d deleted it, it hadn’t been important at the time. Something about sleep? Or food? It was nagging all the same. His brain worked furiously, desperately recalling yesterday’s events, trying so hard to explain why there was an unnerving sense of déjà vu. Déjà vu? He didn’t believe in such trite.

 

“Fine,” Sherlock eventually mumbled.

 

John seemed placated. “Good, you need to be if we’re gonna figure out this thing about the Hound. Don’t think Henry will last much longer. You done with thinking? We gotta head down to Baskerville.”

 

Sherlock froze. Baskerville? Hadn’t he been there with John yesterday? Were his memories wrong? “We went yesterday.”

 

John stared at him as if he had been speaking in another language. “No...? You were too busy being an absolute dick yesterday.”

 

A different set of dialogue but the setting was much too similar to the one in his mind. Was it possible to relive the same day twice? No, that was unheard of and therefore, not a possibility. A nightmare. He simply had a nightmare. His eyes slowly came to focus as he looked back up at John, taking in his appearance once more. John was alive. Thank God.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

John gaped. “Did you just apologise?” He quickly shook his head. “Look, it’s okay, you’ve already chased after me in the graveyard and made me that coffee. You don’t have to keep feeling guilty,” John said, lifting his hands as a means of showing that he bore no ill will.

 

Frankly, Sherlock stopped listening after ‘coffee’. The drugged coffee. John was drugged with the sugar, later today he would be trapped in Baskerville and would—

 

“We can’t go to Baskerville.”

 

Again, there was a look of confusion. “Why? Isn’t Baskerville responsible for the Hound thing? Going there would make sense! Sherlock, what’s wrong with you today?”

 

Panic and terror gripped at him, his frame shook as it had the previous night. However, the only difference was that he was sure that this was not drug induced. He was genuinely afraid that John would die. Sherlock had been the cause of his death the first time, what was to say that he wouldn’t be again?

 

Perhaps the notion of reliving the same day twice was an actual possibility? He suppose it didn’t matter, this was a second chance, given to him by God knows what and he had no intention in letting it go to waste. John would not die. Not again.

 

He needed to keep John safe and with the drug in his system, there was no telling what could set him off. They would stay in, dull, perhaps, but it was the safest option. If they were to go out, who knows what hallucination John would see? Would he become a gibbering mess like Henry had become? So paranoid and afraid, he’d cower at the sight of his own shadow?

 

Sherlock felt a stab of pain when he realised that he was the cause of this.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

He started, peered over at him with wide eyes.

 

“Christ, are you sick? Did that thing with the Hound shake you up that badly?” John asked as he made his way toward the bed. His hand reached out to feel Sherlock’s forehead and after comparing it with his own temperature, he frowned lightly. “Nothing seems wrong,” he said, lightly gripping Sherlock’s chin and checking his pupils.

 

“I’m not sick.” No, not sick. Merely afraid.

 

“Well, that’s good. Even if we’re not going to Baskerville, there’s no point in just sitting about twiddling our thumbs. I don’t mind doing some recon work, get some more information and all.”

 

Recon work. Recon work was good. Recon work wasn’t Baskerville with its multiple triggers, cages and poisons. Sherlock nodded dumbly. “Where did you have in mind?”

 

John shrugged and backed away. “Henry’s again, I guess. See how he’s doing, poor guy’s almost lost his mind by now.”

 

Sherlock had a bad feeling, the same one he got yesterday. Was it really a good idea to lead John into the hands of a mentally unstable person? “I’ll go with you.”

 

“Well, suit yourself.”

 

~*~

 

Henry had a gun held in his shaking hands. John was bleeding out on the floor.

 

Everything turned black.

 

~*~

 

“You okay?”

 

Sherlock’s mind was in overdrive, his breathing uneven as he stared at John at the bathroom door. Again. He was going through this again? John had died twice now, how many more times did he have to endure this?

 

“No,” Sherlock said.

 

John’s brow furrowed. “Christ, are you sick? Did that thing with the Hound shake you up that badly?”

 

The same words. The exact same words as before. “No,” Sherlock said again. “This has nothing to do with the Hound.”

 

The look of confusion merely grew. “Then what is it? If you’re in trouble, I want to try and help.”

 

How could he say this without sounding a fool? “I’m reliving today.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Today is Tuesday and yesterday was Tuesday too. It may sound ridiculous and it is not that feeling of déjà vu, or whatever it’s called. But I’m sure that today is repeating itself,” he said slowly but without stopping. “This is the third time I have lived this Tuesday.”

 

For the longest while, John said nothing. “So, you think you’re stuck in a... what, a time loop?” Sherlock nodded. “Oh come on, that’s weird, even coming from you. I thought you didn’t read science-fiction, or any fiction for that matter. You said it was a load of bollocks,” he added as an afterthought. He let out an exasperated sigh but held a fond grin upon his face. “That Hound must’ve messed you up more than you thought.”

 

“It wasn’t the Hound,” Sherlock insisted.

 

The amusement faded from John’s features and swiftly turned to concern. “Alright, I’ll bite. So, let’s say that you really are caught in a time loop, what resets it? I mean, do you just go to sleep and it starts all over again?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then there’s gotta be a trigger. All you have to do is not set it off, right?” John offered.

 

Oh John, sweet, simple John. Of course Sherlock had considered this. All he had to do was to keep John alive and time would reset itself, he thought, using John’s laughable straightforward logic. So full of flaws, too many variables. Sherlock had tried, that had been the original plan but after failing twice, he was starting to doubt the effectiveness of it all. Keeping him alive was not as easy as it seemed to be. No, he needed to rule out all possibilities. Eliminate all threats to John, starting with the drugged sugar. If he was able to cure John’s potential derangement, then that was one less risk.

 

“We need to go to Baskerville.”

 

John’s smile was one of relief.

 

~*~

 

This time, John was hit by a car.

 

~*~

 

The next, he was mauled by an escaped chimpanzee.

 

~*~

 

A needle filled with an experimental virus.

 

~*~

 

Food poisoning.

 

~*~

 

Choking on a tomato.

 

~*~

 

Today was the eighty-ninth Tuesday Sherlock had lived through and frankly, he was at his breaking point. Every day, John died before him and every day, he was unable to stop it. If he stopped one possibility, another presented itself and the cycle would repeat. Deletion of data, of memories, was not an option, lest he repeat his mistakes again. Over and over, never ending. Every day was the same: pull John away from the speeding car, steer him from the mugger, stop him from ordering the full English breakfast and still have him die in some way.

 

He had long discovered that the drug was not in the sugar. He had unravelled the mystery of the Hound weeks ago. Titbits of information was garnered to form a conclusion and with that, the mystery was over, done and dusted but never buried. How could it be when everyone else was in an eternal state of stagnation?

 

Every day was the same. Every day, John died.

 

His mind was eating itself, forever working, always trying to stop John’s demise and unable to succeed. This torture was excruciating, watching his best friend— his _only_ friend, perish in so many ways, it was enough to drive anyone mad. He supposed that the best option was simply to let go, to denounce John as his friend but that task was as impossible as keeping him alive. No matter how hard he tried, his bond with John would never break.

 

This was what made this ordeal so terrible. He felt like Tantalus, forever mocked by the water at his knees and the fruit dangling in front of his lips. Reaching for either would only cause it to vanish, if he acted out of turn, the boulder at the edge of the cliff would fall and crush him. What would be the appropriate metaphor for the boulder? Insanity? The moment that fell upon him, he— Well, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

 

“So, you think you’re stuck in a time loop. Oh—” John began.

 

“—Come on, that’s weird, even coming from you. I thought you didn’t read science-fiction, or any fiction for that matter,” Sherlock finished. His eyes were fixed on the wall behind John, he was reciting from memory. “That’s creepy,” he continued, stealing the words from John’s mouth before he had a chance to voice them. “Stop that. That’s not funny. How are you doing that?” He said, his voice flat, monotone, tedium dripping from every word.

 

John stared at him, silent for a few moments. “I’m not saying that I believe you but I’ll play along. What’s the trigger? What resets the day?”

 

“You die.”

 

John choked. “I-I what?”

 

Sherlock lifted his head to meet John’s gaze. “You. Die,” he repeated.

 

Various emotions played upon John’s face and for those terse few seconds, the air in the room was still until eventually, John sat down on Sherlock’s bed, his breath short and his knees weak. “H-how?”

 

“Would you like me to list all eighty-nine variations?”

 

“Eighty— Fuck, Sherlock, you’ve seen me die that many times?” Sherlock nodded. “Shit, I...” He shook his head and buried his face into his hands. “This is insane.”

 

Sherlock said nothing, merely looked out the window. In twelve seconds, a man will pass by, walking his Cocker Spaniel. And as if clockwork, said man passed by, however, something was different. The dog was meant to leap up twice before being patted on its head but not today. Today, the man did not offer the dog his hand, did not smile to it and laugh.

 

An improbability.

 

Without waiting for John, Sherlock jumped. His body sprang into action, legs stretched and thin frame practically flying down the stairs and out the door. Catching up to the man took mere seconds. His arms lashed out, grabbing him by the collar and roughly shoving him to the cold, stone floor.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock ignored the cry. “Who are you?” He demanded, shaking the man as he did. The dog had run off long ago and in the distance, he could he John’s heavy breaths as he caught up to them.  

 

The man was plain, no remarkable features aside from the thick beard that covered the lower half of his face. He was elderly, nearing his late sixties and with his burgundy cardigan and casual slacks, it was no wonder that this man had slipped past Sherlock’s observations. He was inconspicuous in every way, blended too well into his surroundings.

 

He let out a fearful cry, his frail body shaking with each jerk of Sherlock’s arms. “Please don’t hurt me!” He rasped.

 

The snarl was low and animalistic. “Answer me!”

 

“For God’s sake, Sherlock! Let him go!”

 

“You have five seconds before I crush your head against this floor,” Sherlock said, his voice now a mere rumble. “Every day, I have observed my surroundings and every day, it is the same. The only thing that’s different is _you_. Why is this?” He rambled, the words spilled out in a rush, he was unable to stop the hint of hysteria from slipping into it. A lead, a potential end to this eternal Hell.

 

The man’s façade dropped and a slow smile bloomed.

 

“I told you I’d burn the heart out of you.”

 

Everything went black.

**Author's Note:**

> For Inspectahradio on tumblr. The full prompt was:
> 
> Moriarty knows John is Sherlock’s ‘heart’. To burn the ‘heart’ out of Sherlock, Moriarty (aka The Trickster) puts John into a continuous loophole where he has to relive the moment Sherlock jumping off at St. Bart’s, and his every attempt to save the detective from falling, he dies a different death. It’s always Tuesday and Sherlock keeps dying in front of John. Sherlock and John has to figure out how to escape this loophole before John begins to deteriorate and loses his sanity.
> 
> It would be good too if it was vice versa for that prompt. If John was the one who died constantly, that would leave Sherlock try to solve Moriarty’s puzzle before death takes John’s life again in the Tuesday loophole. He’ll end up going insane because he can’t delete anything. Every clues will be crucial in saving John’s life. But with that idea that he can’t delete anything at all, that means every single death that happen to John will be stored in Sherlock’s mind. With his curse to observe everything he sees, he’ll see and remember every facial expression John makes to Sherlock before he dies. Then each Tuesday, John will notice how Sherlock becomes more agitated and more irritable, as Moriarty’s game is starting to take its toll on him.


End file.
